


The More Things Change

by Ariel_Tempest



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Dealing With Loss, Fluff, Gen, Mild Angst, Post Series Spoilers, Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2016-10-03
Packaged: 2018-08-19 06:34:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8193898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariel_Tempest/pseuds/Ariel_Tempest
Summary: 1936A year after her great grandmother's death, Miss Sibyl Branson is looking forward to her first tour of the Continent...more or less.





	

**Author's Note:**

> While there are no active romantic pairings in this story, Andrew and Daisy are married, as are Mr. Molsley and Mrs. Baxter.

Miss Sybil Branson stood in the library and looked out over the newly blooming flowers. There was a new rose to replace the one that had been lost to the blight the year before, the one that everyone had said was her mother's favorite. The new rose was just starting to bud, but Granny was already insisting it couldn't be as pretty as the one that was lost.

Clustered around the stone bench at the heart of the garden, several patches of violets had sprung up earlier in the year and had grown large enough to pass for one large group. In past years gardener had always pulled the intrusive plants, but this year Donk had refused to let him, and so now they filled the sunny air with their scent. 

The weather was as perfect as one could ask for in an early English summer, sunny with puffy white clouds, and normally Sybil would be admiring the garden from the bench rather than the window. It would have made a very pretty picture, with the violets matching her dress and the roses opening around her. Today, however, she was feeling worn out. Great Aunt Rosamund had been there all week in preparation for her upcoming trip to the Continent. Sybil was going with her, and her grandparents were fretting.

Her father and Aunt Mary insisted they always fretted and told her to ignore them.

Aunt Rosamund certainly did; it didn't matter what the objection was. Even money, which was in short supply these days, didn't deter her. “Sybbie is sixteen, practically a woman,” she insisted, perversely using Sybil's childhood nickname. “She should see the Continent, preferably before another war breaks out, and I want to see it with her. I'm not getting any younger, after all.”

People insisted that Aunt Rosamund didn't look a day over fifty, but she had told Sybil that they only said it to flatter her. Sybil never replied since every time she thought she'd figured out what an age should look like, she met at least three people who looked older or younger. She could have believed Aunt Rosamund was fifty. She could believe that she was just over sixty. Believing she was seventy would have been a stretch.

In the end, though, the actual age didn't matter. She was old enough to have buried both parents, a niece, and a nephew-in-law. She was old enough that her left knee occasionally gave her problems. She was old enough to be very aware that she and her brother and sister-in-law were not going to live forever.

For the past week, as she and the maids had talked over what clothes to pack and what sundries she might need, Sybil had been very aware of it as well, although she'd tried her best not to show it.

Behind her the door scraped the jam as it swung open, causing her to turn. She'd been expecting Andrew, the footman. Instead she found herself in the somewhat unexpected company of the butler. Letting the door swing shut behind him, he turned neatly, tray in hand, and smiled primly at her. “Your tea, Miss Sybbie.”

“Barrow, you didn't need to bring that!” She returned the smile, leaving the window to sit on the couch, her footsteps muffled by the old Persian rug. While Aunt Rosamund insisted she should stop answering to the nickname, except apparently when Aunt Rosamund used it, Sybil never corrected the staff. “You should be getting things ready for dinner.”

“I've been over the wine list with his Lordship,” the butler replied, crossing over to set the tray on the end table and deftly fill her cup. “And if I stick my head in the kitchen at this point, Mrs. Patmore will probably take it off with a rolling pin. She was angry enough that I pulled Daisy away to get the tea. So, I am quite free to serve tea for the prettiest lady in the house.” At the same time he presented her with the flattery he also presented her tea saucer, cup, and a small plate of lemon biscuits. 

Sybil, who happened to be quite fond of lemon biscuits, picked one up and laughed. They were still warm. “Don't let Aunt Mary hear you say that, she'll have you sacked.”

“I'm not afraid of your aunt,” he assured her, then amended, “At least not beyond reason. After all, if she sacks me, who is she going to have to entertain Master Hugh when he's home ill from school?”

“Oh she'll just take him with her to the office.” Sybil rolled her eyes and shrugged. “He's six, how much trouble could he be for a day?”

Barrow didn't say anything, but his eyebrows sharply questioned her knowledge of sick youngsters in general, her youngest cousin in particular.

Sybil took a bite of her biscuit and gave a contented little sigh. “Thank you for these. You really didn't have to, you know.”

“It was no trouble,” Barrow gave her a rare, genuine smile. “Daisy made plenty and they were just cool enough and I know how much you like them.” He paused, then added, “And, if you don't mind my saying it, a number of us have thought you seemed a bit glum this past week.”

“Oh, not really,” Sybil replied, her own smile losing a bit of it's warmth, making a lie of her words. “Just thinking too much is all.”

“May I ask what about? It can't be the trip, can it? I'd have thought you'd be excited about that.”

“Oh, I am,” Sybil brightened, just for a moment, then her expression fell again. “Or, I mostly am. I'm excited to go, just, I suppose a little bit afraid of what I'll find when I get back.”

Barrow looked politely confused.

Sybil examined her biscuit for a moment, then gestured to the couch across from her, twin to the worn red furnishing she sat on. Aunt Mary always talked about having the furniture in the library done over, but there were never the funds. Things were starting to get better again, but not very quickly. “Have a seat, Barrow, please. It's awkward having a serious discussion with someone when they're looming over you.” He hesitated, eyes going to the door way. “Please,” she insisted. “I'll take the blame if Aunt Rosamund walks in and throws a tantrum.”

In the face of her insistence, the butler carefully swept his tails out behind him and sat. Sybil could never decide how old he was. There were times he seemed around her aunts' age and other times he seemed much older. Now the sunlight picked out something pale and silver in the dark of his hair, no more than a few strands but still there, and the fine web of wrinkles at the corners of his eyes stood out. He still looked strong enough to pick her up and carry her on his back the way he had when she'd been young enough no one cared. He'd always smelled of warmth and smoke.

It was comforting. 

After fidgeting with her teacup for a moment, Sybil took a sip to brace herself and tried to explain what had been troubling her. “I'm sure you're going to tell me I'm being silly,” she started, “And I suppose I am. After all, it's been a year since Great Gran died, but when she did, I started to realize things about life, about how uncertain it all is. One day, here we are planning her birthday party and then suddenly we're planning her funeral instead. I understand that she was old, very old, but it was still so abrupt. Then George's birthday came and for the first time it really hit me that Uncle Matthew died the day he was born, and my mother died the day I was born. Now here I am, going off to France and Switzerland and I want to go, really, but I can't help thinking, what if something happens while I'm gone? What if I come home and someone else is gone? What if I don't come back at all?” Her voice threatened to crack and she stopped talking.

For several minutes the room was silent except for the careful in and out of Sybil's breath as she tried to keep her composure. Barrow frowned at the old, empty fireplace, his eyes unfocused in thought. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft and carefully solemn. “You're not being silly, Miss Sybbie,” he told her. “Life is anything but certain. The one time I went to France, I was lucky to come back at all. Of course, there was a war on at the time. Made it a bit riskier, and the trenches didn't make for good sight seeing.” He raised his gloved hand and gave her a short, tight laugh and an equally abortive smile. “But I did come back. So did Mr. Matthew.”

Sybil silently eyed the glove, tracing the line where fabric gave way to skin as she listened. She knew why he wore it, of course. She'd never seen the scar beneath it, but at least intellectually, she knew.

“That was sort of the irony, when he did die,” the butler continued, refolding his hands in his lap. His expression was still distant, not looking at her so much as past her for a moment before refocusing on his lap. The sun caught the dust motes between them, making the quiet room seem a reality apart from the rest of the house. “He didn't die in the war. He didn't even die coming back from Scotland. He died driving from the village to the house, just like he'd done a hundred times before. That's what makes it frightening, really, the thought that you don't have to go far away to lose someone. You can lose them right here at home.” Finally his pale eyes raised to her face and he leaned forward, tone earnest. “But that's why you can't just say 'I'm not going to live my life' because it's scary. If you just stay home all of the time because you're afraid something bad will happen when you're gone, all that means is that you'll miss out on everything. The bad things will still happen, eventually. And who knows? Maybe while you're gone, something wonderful will happen and you'll come back to a nice surprise.” He smiled again, although the expression was shy and threatened to vanish. “Perhaps Mrs. Patmore and Mr. Mason will finally announce they're getting married and they'll want you to be part of the bride's party. Maybe the Parkers will have another child, they're both still young enough. Maybe his lordship will have found a bitch for Horus and there will be puppies to play with. And in the meantime, think of all the things you'll see.” 

The smile grew stronger and the corners of his eyes crinkled. It was infectious and despite her melancholy, Sybil couldn't help smiling a little herself. “I'd love to see France again,” he continued, “Really see it this time. Every time someone's gone I've been a footman, or a butler, or the wrong person's valet, and had to stay home. I'm always hearing how amazing the food is, the buildings and the museums, the music. I confess, I'm not really into culture like that, but the way people describe Notre Dame and standing on the Seine, it all sounds so incredible.” He paused, drawing back a little, and a hint of mischief entered his eyes. “And of course, there's one rumor I've heard and always wanted to know if it was true,” he paused for a couple of heartbeats, anticipation hanging in the silence, “But I shouldn't tell you about that. It's not fit for a young lady.” 

Sybil hadn't been aware she had been holding her breath until she let it out in an abrupt, exasperated huff. “Barrow! Don't tease.”

“I'm not teasing, Miss Sybbie,” he insisted, eyes wide, all innocence. “I really shouldn't have even brought it up. Wasn't thinking.”

“But you did bring it up,” she scolded, “So now you have to tell me.”

Pale eyes shifted to the door. “I don't know...”

“I promise I won't tell.”

“Oh, well then, if you promise,” he smirked and leaned in a bit, conspiratorially, as if he hadn't been intending on telling her the entire time. “I can't swear to it, but I have heard that France has all of the best looking men.”

It was a good thing that Sybil didn't have anything in her mouth besides air, because if she had, Barrow would have wound up wearing it. Then again, there was enough distance between the couches it probably would have just wound up decorating the rug. As it was she choked on shock and laughter in equal portions. “I can't believe you just said that!” she gasped for breath around her giggles. There were certain things that no one in the house talked about openly, even if everyone except perhaps Hugh was aware of them. Why, despite changes in societal expectation, the butler remained unmarried was one of them.

“I told you it wasn't a rumor for a young lady,” Barrow demurred, although a wicked smirk still played around the corners of his mouth. “But if it's true, just think! The most handsome young man in the world could be waiting for you.” His expression shifted to mild concern. “You have packed something nice for evenings, haven't you? Something to bring out those lovely blue eyes?”

Sybil wiped a tear from one of the eyes in question and shook her head. “As if Anna and Mrs. Molsley would let me get out of the house with just day clothes. Really, though, any young man I meet in France is going to speak French, and my French is terrible.”

“You could practice,” the butler replied with dignified enthusiasm, refusing to be deterred. “Who knows? Perhaps he speaks terrible English. The two of you could have a contest to see which of you is worse.”

“You're horrid,” Sybil scolded, although she still couldn't quite stifle her giggles or stop her lips from curling up.

“Perhaps, but you're laughing. I can survive being horrid if you're happy.”

With a roll of her eyes, Sybil took another sip of tea, buying herself time while she got her mirth under control. “Well,” she finally replied, her voice warm with fond vengeance, “If the rumor does prove true, I will be sure to bring one home for you, how's that?”

That was, apparently, just a little bit too close to home for comfort. The smirk died abruptly and the butler's pale eyes widened. He stammered, “That wasn't, I mean, I hadn't intended-”

“Oh, don't panic,” Sybil laughed at him over the rim of her cup. “I was only teasing. Besides, surely you know by now that none of us care.”

“There are some things you never get too comfortable with, Miss Sybbie,” Barrow dropped his eyes sharply to his folded hands. He tried to smile, but it came out as more of a grimace. “When you do, that's when things start going wrong.”

Ashamed, Sybil set her cup down and dropped her own eyes. “I'm sorry Barrow,” she apologized. “Here you are trying to cheer me up, and I go and make you uncomfortable. Very careless of me.”

“It's alright, Miss. I know you didn't mean it.” 

“Who knows? Perhaps some day that will change too.”

The ghost of a long dead smile drifted across his face. “Someone once told me that harsh reality is better than false hope. He was right. There are other things to hope for, things that aren't impossible.”

“I suppose,” Sybil frowned. She didn't like to think that the good things in life could die and fade away, while the things that needed to change were immovable. “Still, I will never stop hoping for your happiness.”

“Thank you for that, Miss Sybbie.” With a deep breath Barrow stood, his hands falling to his sides, the very model of a modern butler. “I should be getting on with my day. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

While she wasn't eager to lose his company, Sybil gave him a soft smile and shook her head. “No, that will do. Thank you, Barrow, for taking the time. I really do appreciate it.”

The crispness of Barrow's bow was softened by the faint suggestion of a smile in his eyes. “Anytime, Miss Sybbie. Anytime.” With the smooth stride that never failed him, he turned and made to leave the room.

Sybil turned her attention back to her tea. She had the cup halfway to her lips when a thought struck her and she turned hurriedly, calling to stop the butler before he could reach the door. “Barrow, wait! There is something.”

Stopping and half turning in the same move, he looked back at her. “Yes, Miss Sybbie?”

Setting her cup back on the saucer, she gave him her fullest attention. Her chin raised, her eyes fixed on his, she asked in her best, most solemn tone, “Barrow, will you behave while I'm away?”

It was a question and a tradition.

He didn't quite smile, but the corners of his eyes crinkled as he replied. “No.”


End file.
